Epilogophilia: Round Up the Old Gang
by owlcroft
Summary: You don't sell memories; you share them with your friends.


**Epilogophilia: Round Up the Old Gang**

_The judge gets a notice from the Fire Marshall to clean out his fire-trap of a garage and discovers an old college basketball trophy belonging to a friend, Teddy Hendrix, with whom he's nearly lost touch. He decides to pay a visit to his old buddy, who is now a basketball coach, but instead walks in on a kidnap attempt. Teddy takes off from the scene, so Hardcastle checks in with Mrs. Hendrix, who tells him that her husband and a man named Roy Barlow have an ongoing problem between them. Hendrix tracks down the judge and admits he's been fixing basketball games for Barlow, but wants out of the racket. Hardcastle and McCormick agree to help him, but before they can get him to the District Attorney, Mrs. Hendrix (who has joined up with Barlow) lures Teddy into a trap. He and Hardcastle are taken to an old oil field to "be disposed of", but McCormick and a few of the old college basketball team show up to foil the plot. The judge then holds a garage sale to get rid of his years of accumulated miscellany. _

**Epilogue** -- Owlcroft

"How come this didn't sell?" The judge let a heavy box down onto the wooden table in the garage with a thump. "What'd ya put in here anyway, a bowling ball?"

"Yep." McCormick was still acting miffed by the judge's own particular system of accounting, which left him owing the judge a few bucks.

Hardcastle peered into the box. "Hmmph. Nice looking, good condition. What were ya asking for it?"

"Two dollars," Mark replied briefly, then hoisted the box he was carrying to the top shelf of the cabinet next to the workbench.

The judge shook his head in puzzlement at the non-sale, then headed back outside for more detritus.

Mark threw a glance after him, then hurriedly retrieved the box he'd placed on the shelf and pulled out a stuffed animal. He looked around quickly for a hiding place, then heard footsteps approaching the garage again. The plush pig was shoved under his shirt and he turned toward the door leading into the house.

"Back in a sec," he called over his shoulder.

Hardcastle grunted in agreement, then said in surprise, "Hey, what's that?"

McCormick stopped, stiffened, turned slowly, then realized the judge had been pointing to a scrap of paper on the floor. He made a convulsive movement to hide the bulge in his shirt, but it was too late.

"And what's _that_?" demanded the judge, pointing at a plush pink pig's tail protruding from under Mark's shirt.

"Ah, well . . . it's a, um . . . it's, um . . ."

"That's Mister Mortimer!" Hardcastle reached for the pink tail and dragged the small stuffed pig out from under the shirt. "What're ya doing with him? I put him in that box with the croquet set and the football and all those board games." He stared at Mark suspiciously. "I _know _we sold that box."

McCormick shrugged. "Yeah, we did. But I pulled it outa there this morning and set it aside."

"It's a _him_, not an it, and _why_?"

Mark looked at his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, I kinda noticed that you were, ah . . . maybe a little reluctant to sell it—sorry, I mean _him—_and I figured it might mean something to you and you might want another chance to think it over, so I kinda put _him _away 'til everything was over 'cause if you wanted him to go with the other stuff, that lady paid with a check and it's got her name and address on it, so we could just drop him off later, but this way you can think it over some more, so it really doesn't make any difference, unless you figure she oughta pay a little more if he's thrown in, and I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem, 'cause she seemed like a really nice person and she'd probably—"

"Okay!" The judge held up a hand to stem the flow of words. "I think I got it." He touched a pointy pink ear, then a chubby black foot. "You figured I might regret getting rid of him. Maybe have second thoughts about it."

"Something like that." McCormick was still entranced by the sight of his own feet.

There was a silence broken by the judge's small sigh. "At dinner one night, Nancy told him he ate like a pig. You know what he said?"

Mark shook his head silently and ventured a peek at the judge from under his brows.

"He said he liked pigs, didn't she like pigs?" Hardcastle rubbed his nose, still looking at Mister Mortimer. "Next day, she saw this guy in a store. Had to buy him. He ate dinner with us for almost three years."

Another short silence fell, then McCormick said quietly, "I had a tiger. Named him Rags after the tiger on 'Crusader Rabbit'. I wish I still had old Rags."

Hardcastle smiled at the small pig he held. "We watched 'Crusader Rabbit' every day at breakfast." He took a deep breath, then added, "I guess there's nothing wrong with keeping a coupla things . . . you know, mementos and stuff."

"It's better to keep something than to wish you hadn't given it away." Mark cocked his head. "I'll go get the rest of the things that didn't sell. Why don't you put Mister Mortimer away and start the spaghetti?"

The judge smiled at him. "Put him away? He's having dinner with us tonight, kiddo."


End file.
